To Be Bound
by Pontmercesque
Summary: Rewritten yet again. Enjolras and Grantaire seem doomed to see things made ever more complicated for them.


(Version one posted 27/9/06, version two 7/12/07, version three 2/3/09.) Yes, I've done it again. I'm never pleased with this story but it won't leave me alone. Was this my first Les Mis fanfic? I would say something cheesy about how it's grown and changed with me, only I do have a little shame.

* * *

To Be Bound

They had looked so alike in their earliest youth. How lovely it was to see them running through the fields, laughing; anyone might have mistaken them for brothers. As they grew older the resemblance began to fade, as such things do. Perhaps they had similar features, but there seemed to have been a mistake in the distribution; for what appeared charming in one became a defect in the other. There remained just one point of astonishing likeness between the two: it was in their eyes, a colour close to grey, like dusk filtered through a frosted pane.

Even so, only one pair was adorned with stars.

• • •

Of course Grantaire would attend his own mother's wedding, but it was still jarring to see him there, at first. They had managed to organise their travel entirely separate from one another; indeed they had not exchanged a word about the whole affair, nothing but a brief, gloomy look that said, yes, the letter, I got one too. How bizarre to see him now, chatting with the other guests, clean-shaven and to all appearances sober. Enjolras smiled tensely at him from across the lawn, with the smile of a distant and long-forgotten acquaintance, as if it had been more than four days since they'd last seen each other, as if they didn't meet nearly every day, one way or another. Grantaire nodded in return.

"You're not listening to me, are you? I can tell when you're not," the aunt scolded, swatting his arm. Enjolras clenched his jaw and fought the urge to swat her back. "I said I wanted to hear all about Paris, and I meant it. Oh, don't tell me, could that be little Jules over there? Is it? Why, I hardly recognised him. Do you get to see him quite often?"

"We're both very busy with our studies, Madame," Enjolras lied.

"How many times do I have to remind you? I'm your auntie, and that's what you must call me! Now, what was I saying? Just look at poor Jules-Marie! Has he not been eating?"

"I wouldn't know, Auntie," he answered coolly.

The aunt merely shook her head. "What do they feed you city boys, anyway? I expect you're out all night at dancing halls and – and – don't think I don't know how it is. That boy, he's skin and bones! Of course, some of that's in his nature. His father was always the same, God rest his soul." She clucked her tongue to emphasise her disapproval. Enjolras suppressed a shudder.

"There's nothing wrong with the food, Auntie." (Except that it's kept from the tables of those who've worked hard to earn it.) "You were telling me, were you not, about an excellent restaurant you used to visit in…?" He hoped he was right; he hadn't been listening very closely, after all. The aunt looked a bit flustered.

"Well, you know, Paris is Paris. Let them do as they please. I'll take a simple country meal any day." Enjolras idly estimated the number of servants she might require to prepare one of her simple country meals. Then he frowned. His attempt to turn the conversation had failed. The aunt had begun to crane her neck, peering into the crowd. "I remember the two of you as children, playing together in this house, just like brothers."

"We weren't that close," Enjolras said.

The aunt smiled broadly. "Does it matter? You are brothers, from today. It's only right. You know, I've always believed that nothing ever happens by accident."

This time, Enjolras could not stop the cold feeling darting up his back.

Across the lawn, Grantaire plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and raised it toward him in silence.

• • •

The party danced late into the evening, and on into the morning. Grantaire tripped across the floor with all the dejected young women whom Enjolras had politely refused.

• • •

And yet, weary though he was, Grantaire could not lie still that night, knowing who was sleeping just beyond the wall. He could still recall the two of them as very small boys, sharing a pillow. Then, once they had grown too big for that, they would throw the bedcovers onto the floor and cocoon themselves in for the night–when the thought of being without a bed was still a novelty. Tonight, he was impressed that they were even under the same roof. Ah, but things had changed.

He thought back to another evening, some weeks back, the freshest fantasy of his sleepless nights. He had fallen asleep – had regained consciousness crudely in the back room of the café at some ungodly hour of morning – this not unusual in itself – but there was something different; he could hear another person's shallow breathing from the other side of the room. It was pitch dark – there were no windows – but he was certain it was Enjolras who had fallen asleep there. He lay and listened for a long, long time, all the while entertaining tender thoughts of draping his coat over the sleeping boy's shoulders, or putting his forgotten papers in order, or just lighting a candle and gazing at him till morning. But he dared not move and break the scene, and when he woke again, the sun had risen and Enjolras was gone.

The more he revisited this memory, the more he doubted it had ever happened at all, but it was sweet nevertheless.

At last, his feverish pacing led him into the hall: he stopped at the next door to his left.

His heart was beyond that door, stuck behind the cold white wood where he couldn't reach it. _He_ was beyond that door, sleeping, dreaming wonderful, beautiful dreams that Grantaire could scarcely imagine. But perhaps he didn't dream, for he did enough of that when he was awake. Perhaps he wasn't even asleep. Yes, that seemed more likely. No doubt he was squinting against the candlelight, poring over a disintegrating schoolbook, or diligently composing some discourse that had come to him during the day. Moved by a moment's onslaught of sentiment, Grantaire swept forward and pressed his lips against the door. He first tried to whisper a line of verse that had just come to mind, and then he grasped for a long-forgotten prayer, but all he could manage was a single name: _Alexandre_.

Had he been sleeping? It didn't really matter. Now he was awake; Grantaire caught a very faint sound, a creak, the floorboards had always been like that in the summer, but Enjolras was graceful enough to tread them in near silence. (Grantaire liked to imagine, in retrospect, that it was his word, that whispered name, that had roused the other man; but he didn't really believe it.) The door clicked open abruptly. For a moment it was only a sliver, and there he appeared, staring wide-eyed, wearing his nightclothes and clutching a pistol. Grantaire flinched. But in an instant the vision was gone, and the look of – fear? No, not fear, only caution – was dashed away, overtaken by irritation, mild disbelief.

"You! What in God's name were you doing out there?"

"That room they put me in," Grantaire answered hoarsely, "I'm dying. I can't breathe. The windows are stuck."

"You're drunk!"

"How very kind of you pretending to be surprised," Grantaire said, smiling helplessly. "That's quite the polite thing to do. You ought to be more careful, you don't want Polite Society to start mistaking you for one of them. But now, as it happens, I'm not so bad. I've only had a bit. A toast, let's call it, a private toast. To the bride and groom. Bless monsieur Enjolras, may he live long and happy with his ugly widow!"

Enjolras slowly put the pistol aside, but a dark look came over him.

"Oh, stop," said Grantaire. "I know what you're thinking. I know exactly how you feel about the whole affair. You might remember that you're not the only one caught up in it."

"Even for you, it isn't right to speak that way about your own mother."

Grantaire pouted, propping himself against the door frame. "Well, she is ugly. She birthed me. Maybe she was prettier before that. All right, I'm a heartless ass, aren't I? I take it that runs in the family," he said pointedly.

Enjolras did not move for a moment, seemingly gauging the situation. At last – perhaps too exhausted, too exhausted by far – he stepped aside, allowing his visitor to enter. Grantaire crossed the threshold gingerly.

"I'm sure you wouldn't understand. You'll only mock me. But I don't like it," Enjolras admitted, cringing, sitting on the edge of his bed. "The two of them being married. It isn't decent."

"Ah, so that's it?" Grantaire was still teetering uncertainly in the centre of the room. "That's why you've been so gloomy all day?"

"I've been the same as ever," Enjolras said sharply.

"Oh, yes, you're quite as artificial as you always are at these family events." He ran a hand through his hair, clean now but no longer neat. "I know you better than that, though!"

"Perhaps you know a bit about me, yes, but that hardly amounts to the same thing."

"And I know you wouldn't dream of asking for my advice, but I feel I should tell you, since, as you say, I know a bit about you – which is more than most other people can claim – that you would be far better off accepting the marriage for what it is. It's done now."

Enjolras rose swiftly, angrily.

"I don't know how it happened, but they do seem to love one another," Grantaire continued. "Well, so much the better for them. Why shouldn't they be married? It's done."

"Never speak to me of things you don't believe in." Enjolras was very pale now; in a lighter mood Grantaire might have found it comical. "Get out. Go."

Grantaire came up with a hundred clever retorts in an instant, but he could not remember one long enough to utter it. Instead he murmured something unintelligible and turned his face away, stumbling through the door which adjoined that chamber to his.

• • •

"Taking breakfast without the family, are we?"

Enjolras nearly dropped his book. From the look on his face, his bread might have been laced with quinine. Grantaire leaned against the garden gate, slightly unsteady, but essaying valiantly to look well.

"No one else is awake," Enjolras said curtly.

Grantaire shrugged and sat down beside the rose bush. He'd torn his trouser leg on it as a child. He remembered distinctly feeling hurt; no one had ever warned him that flowers could bite. He pinched a blossom between two fingers and pulled it close to his face, careful not to snap it from its stem. "They're blooming late this year," he commented, and let it go. It bowed and trembled and, watering him with dewdrops, settled back into place. Enjolras didn't answer. Of course, Grantaire didn't assume he had been listening.

"Alexandre."

Enjolras clapped his book shut. The strip of newsprint that had been marking his place slid out and fluttered to the ground. "Enjolras," he corrected.

"But it seems rather impractical – so long as we're on the Enjolras estate – seeing as you're not the only one, nor the eldest."

"I'm not going to become confused," Enjolras said.

"Not," Grantaire continued, unaffected, "that it's a bad thing, being here. Not at all. I just don't like to be impractical." He smirked at his own comment, knowing that Enjolras would not. "Anyway, I suppose you'll call me what you will. At least I'm the only Grantaire here – by name, at least."

"I know very well who my mother was," Enjolras said quietly.

"Did it occur to you I might be speaking of my own mother? She is, after all, Madame Enjolras now. But I must admit I've been wondering: what do you think our companions in Paris would say if they knew? Do you think they'd suddenly start pointing out resemblances between the two of us? Not that it would be easy for them. I suppose they could say, well, you do both have blue eyes, and Grantaire, your hair might look a bit more like that if you washed it now and…"

"It makes me sick to think she's been forgotten already."

"I remember your mother, you silly boy, as if she were my own. She was a fine woman – one of the few fine women I've ever known, I might say. How could I forget?"

Enjolras softened, disarmed. "Yes," he agreed, "she was."

"And my father was a fine man. Do you remember the day he took us fishing by the brook?"

"No," Enjolras answered.

"We were rubbish at it, anyway. The only thing we managed to catch was a little crayfish. I remember you held it so it couldn't escape. It was wriggling around in your tiny palm and all the while you were absolutely unruffled, looking at it just the way you might've looked at–" Grantaire broke off, peering at his cousin almost shyly. "–the way you're looking at me now." He crawled to the foot of the bench where Enjolras sat. "Everything was lovely then, wasn't it?" he asked distantly.

If Grantaire had dared to lift his eyes, he might have seen a particular look cross the other man's face. But he could not; he stared fixedly at the patch of grass around Enjolras's boots. Blindly, he groped for his hand and clumsily wrapped it in his skeletal fingers. Enjolras recoiled at the contact, then fell slack.

"But what does it matter? You won't speak to me," said Grantaire.

"What would you have me say?"

"I can't tell you. It wouldn't matter what you said, as long as you were sincere."

They sat there in silence. Grantaire felt tremors running sporadically through Enjolras's hand. It upset him. But that was unfair; he couldn't allow himself to resent this Enjolras, if he had a few imperfections.

At length, Enjolras spoke, tentatively. "Are you really so stricken by all of this?"

"The wedding? Our parents?" Enjolras nodded tensely, although Grantaire could not see. He shrugged. "To be honest, no. I don't mind so much."

Enjolras stiffened, nearly flinging himself from his seat in exasperation. "Then what is it?" he pressed.

Grantaire looked up at last, a smile – a real smile? – lighting his face. "You want me to tell you?" he asked. He did not wait for an answer; he rose from the ground, never releasing the hand, and took flight: through the charming little garden, across the lawn, past the edge of the forest and farther along; and Enjolras, though he could not imagine why, knew exactly where they would land.

"Will you tell me?" asked Enjolras, trying to catch his breath. Grantaire laughed giddily. Perhaps in the back of his mind, Enjolras wondered whether or not he was drunk.

"Yes, yes, that's right. You wanted to know, what is it? I can tell you now." He looked up at the treetops. "It's you."

Enjolras froze, forgetting to be short of breath. "What?"

"Now it's my turn. Do you remember what I asked you? We were talking about love – if two people are in love, I asked, or I wanted to ask, why shouldn't they be happy together?"

"No. I think you owe me a better explanation than that."

"I don't think I do. You asked, and I answered."

"Lord knows I never thought I'd ask this, but haven't you got anything more say?"

It was probably not meant as a joke, but Grantaire laughed. He laughed and he pressed the joint of his thumb against his teeth. And when he'd finished laughing, he slid onto his tiptoes and kissed his brother on the mouth, gently, with as much care as handling a rose stem or a glass of champagne, or a lover.

Then he fell back on his feet. He was, for the first time, utterly shaken. His mouth was slack; it wasn't clear whether he was trying to form an apology or merely grasp at what he had done, for he did not move.

Enjolras scrutinised him. "Oh," he said, and that was all. And Grantaire did not move, could not move, until Enjolras reached out his hands and ran them across his sallow cheekbones and pushed him away.

• • •

Chair legs scraping the floor, dishes being knocked about, all of it so comfortable, so familiar, it could have been a lullaby. Combeferre was murmuring something dreadfully grave, and Courfeyrac was beaming back at him; Jean Prouvaire was quite melancholy, but really, that was when he was happiest.

"I knew the rose was sickly when I bought it, but how could I refuse, when the seller was such a pretty young rose herself? It was worth it to see the glow of gratitude on her face. All the same, it's sad to see to see it failing before it's had its chance to grow. But I suppose it was optimistic of me, to think that I could make a rose grow here, of all places."

Grantaire smirked in recognition, never looking up from the line he was pressing with his thumbnail into the grain of the table. "I suppose you were," he agreed. "How could a poor little flower stand a chance in this town? Look what it does to the people!" He jerked his hand back and began to suck on a splinter. "Disgusting. Especially given how grimy that place you sleep in is."

"But do cheer up," said Joly, patting Prouvaire's hand. "You've got years in you yet."

Enjolras watched impassively, saying nothing. And yet an hour later he turned to Prouvaire, suddenly resuming his train of thought. "You might give it more time," he said, conversationally. "I've been told that the roses are blooming late this year."

He gathered his papers into a neat pile, stood up, and crossed the room. Grantaire stared at him sweetly as he walked by. Solemn, he removed a sheet of paper – a pamphlet – from the top of his stack, and pinned it to the wall. "Brothers in arms," he began, pointing to it, "see how the counter-revolution seeks to poison our minds –"


End file.
